


So If You're Lonely

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Public Hand Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-14 17:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: Hell has a nightclub where the band plays smooth jazz and the unholy wear sequins and suits, sipping cocktails with names that tango the line between risqué and vulgar.





	So If You're Lonely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [track_04](https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/gifts).

Hell has a nightclub where the band plays smooth jazz and the unholy wear sequins and suits, sipping cocktails with names that tango the line between risqué and vulgar. Nooks behind heavy red curtains, quiet corners and leather booths. The Continental’s law does a number on the usual rules of engagement. Rival mobsters share cigar cases and liqueurs, complain about politics, talk art or pop culture and never talk business. Bodyguards drink at the bar, the liquor easing the stress lines and the constant ache of injuries. Assassins flirt in corners, fuck discreetly behind the curtains.

John hates and appreciates the place in equal measures. He’s spent some good times down here. Talked to old friends, old enemies, caught up on the news - who’s dead, who almost died, who’s unlikely to live out the year. The company varies but the bourbon is top shelf, always.

With an elbow on the bar, John scans his surroundings. It’s something of a mental adjustment, looking at faces instead of the lines of clothing where concealed carries ruck cotton and knives indent pockets like the warning colours on venomous snakes. He tells himself he’s not looking for anyone special. Marcus might be here. Winston might want a chat. Cassian’s been spotted in New York recently, and if he’s desperate then Kirill plays a deadly hand of poker. There’s no one in particular he wants to see.

And then John makes eye contact with a man at a dark corner booth, and accepts that he’s not fooling anyone. Least of all himself. He takes his bourbon, slipping into the crowd. Resigns himself to the mistake he’s already making.

Santino smiles over his glass of Italian red. Alone at the table, he sets a book aside. “John. _Da quanto tempo non ci vediamo. _I missed you.”

“It’s only been a couple of months.”

“And that is too long. Please, sit.” Santino nods at the red leather of the booth, and John slides in next to him. Sitting too close is practically habit at this point. A dangerous pattern to fall into. He’s started having to watch himself when they meet outside Continental grounds.

“How have you been?” He lifts his glass of bourbon, and Santino his wine. They look at each other; it lasts too long. Santino is always far too easy to look at.

“Busy,” Santino tells him. “You’ve missed an exciting few months. Our work on unifying the Camorra clans is going very well.”

“So I heard. Two surrenders?”

“It’s progress,” Santino says. “Though I think we will be needing your help very shortly; my father has sent word to Viggo. Be ready.”

John sips his bourbon, appreciating the depth in the same way he appreciates Santino’s knee against his under the table. “Sure,” he says. “Naples is nice this time of year.” He means it; his contract work for the D’Antonio family is always tolerable at worst, and genuinely enjoyable most of the time. The food is good, and the landscape beautiful. The family makes an effort to welcome him, even knowing what he is. What he does. They open their homes to a monster from the worst of underworld mythology. John appreciates it. Most others don't let the attack dog dine with its owners. Or sleep under the family roof.

“I take it you’re not staying long,” he says. Under the table, Santino’s hand comes to rest on his knee, finger and thumb digging in briefly.

“One night,” Santino says. “I have a flight back in the morning. Just here for a meeting.”

“Anyone special?” John settles back into the plush red leather as the hand on his knee slides upwards. Traces his inseam, fingernails digging briefly into the soft skin of his inner thigh.

“No,” Santino tells him, setting his wine down on the table. “But it was you that I wanted to see, and now I am satisfied.”

“Are you?”

“Well. Maybe not yet.”

Two months is nowhere near enough time to forget the shape of Santino’s mouth, the skill of his tongue as it slides between John’s lips. They don’t bother with starting out chaste; open mouths, stubble scraping, red wine mingling with bourbon. John groans low in his throat as Santino’s hand presses between his legs, cupping the weight of his cock. Something possessive in the gesture; something covetous, as if John needs the reminder that Santino aches to own him in every way possible, and resents every second that he can’t.

It’s not dark enough in their corner booth that no one can see what they’re doing. And not enough of an occurrence that anyone will comment. It’s after midnight in the Continental. No one gives a fuck. John fumbles for the buckle of Santino’s belt.

“How do you want it?” He asks in a pause for breaths, with the taste of Santino’s tongue heady in his mouth. Twitching with the slow drag of a hand over his cock.

Santino gives him a lazy smile. Saliva glistens at the corner of his lips. “I always like hearing you say that. As if the choice is only mine.”

“It is.”

“Never one to ask for the things you want,” Santino says. He leans in, teasing, his mouth bare inches from John’s. “This time, I’ll allow it. But I think the next time I would like to hear you beg. Would you do it, I wonder? For me?” The heel of his palm presses hard between John’s legs.

“Probably,” John says, wry despite everything. “What _don’t_ I do for you?” It’s not a question he likes to dwell on too closely. Contracts aside, obligations and expectations and loyalties aside, the things he’s done for Santino (with Santino; _to_ Santino) bend every rule of the world they move in, and if there ever comes a day when his contract falls into D’Antonio hands-

It’s not a future anyone should want.

The buckle of Santino’s belt clinks. John tugs it open, unbuttons and unzips and slips a hand under Santino’s briefs. He’s fully hard, the tip of him rubbing off slick against John’s palm. Nuzzling the crook of John’s neck. They both breathe heavily.

“Want to take this somewhere else?” He cups the back of Santino’s head with his free hand, leaning in to murmur in his ear. Dragging a hand up the length of his cock. He likes the way it makes Santino press into him and shiver, composure briefly forgotten.

“_Sì, in un momento_.” Santino arches up into John’s hand; his own is busy between John’s legs, stroking him through the fabric of his trousers. Slipping down past the outline of his balls. “When I’m ready. Don’t stop.” He presses kisses to the side of John’s neck, plays his teeth over the soft skin under his ear. His breath catches as John grips him hard and squeezes. “My god, I missed you.”

It’s a dangerous admission to make. Even here, even with Continental law and relative freedom, this is dangerous. It gets worse every time. They’ve grown so close that loneliness starts prickling when they separate. And John does not belong to the Camorra.

“Missed you too,” he says quietly, and knows he was still heard, and that he shouldn’t have said it. He doesn’t have that kind of freedom.

But for the moment, in the heated shadows with Santino’s tongue between his lips and the promise of a long night between them, John doesn’t particularly care.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 300bpm flash exchange. The song prompt was:  
[_Take Me Out_](http://youtu.be/Ijk4j-r7qPA) \- Franz Ferdinand


End file.
